


Nine For A Kiss, Ten For A Bird

by chewysugar



Series: Robin's Nest [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Jason-Centric, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:42:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a rainy night, Jason Todd is once again thinking himself to death. But when Nightwing arrives on the verge of giving up and letting go, Jason realizes that he doesn't need to think if he can feel. And what he feels for Dick Grayson might be the thing that saves them both from walking off the edge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine For A Kiss, Ten For A Bird

Pain. In his body, in his brain, in his being.

Jason’s lived with it too long, too damn long that it’s become almost run-of-the-mill. Sometimes he can make it through the day; sometimes the anvil and hammer in his brain only taps once every few hours. He’ll use those moments of respite to do things a healthy person would do—grab a coffee, go for a ride on his motorcycle…forget. Those are the days he likes the most. 

And those are the days that are few and far between. Someone—Alfred, maybe?—told him to savor the good days, for they were few. It’s the unfairness in that true statement that only makes the continuous battle in Jason’s mind wage to a fever pitch. Sometimes he just wants it to end—sometimes he just wants to drive off of something tall and plunge to a bloody, explosive finality.

It drives him, that pain. Drives him to be the hand of justice that others will not. He fights harder because of it; he screams louder and plays dirtier. Some would say he does it to abate, but that’s not true—Jason isn’t that damaged, not yet at least. 

He does it for release. There’s nothing else he knows of that can get the rusty gears to stop grinding his thoughts into gunpowder than getting his hands bloody.

At the cost of his own body, of course.

He’s sitting on the ledge of a cathedral, staring at the borderline acid rain that eats away at the festering streets of Gotham City. The rain is warm, and Jason hates it.

Rain is supposed to be cooling, supposed to be soothing. As a child, he would take whatever carefree moments he had to run in the rain, pretending like it was washing away something heavy, something that felt like it was biting into his skin.

In Gotham, though, not even the rain is clean.

Another night, another set of scars to remember things by. And though the cogs in his mind are running smooth, slickened by adrenaline and bloodshed, he’s still on alert. He knows that he’ll be fighting against the machinery of his brain in the future. 

There’s no peace, and what little peace he’s trying to salvage in this moment is ruined when somebody pads through the puddles on the roof behind him. Jason tenses—he hates other people, not because he wants to hurt them or because he wants them to pity him. It’s because he knows that his complete and utter fuckupedness will drive them away. Best to rip the bandage off and let the wound out to the open, polluted air.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason sees familiar black and blue; recognizes the wiry, muscular frame. 

It’s Grayson.

Jason long ago gave up the grudge. It was just another one of those trains on the way to nowhere. He can’t hate the Bird anymore. There are other people more deserving of hate. Hell, he doesn’t hate any of his family anymore. Fate determined that he would wear the wool of the black sheep, and so he does.

In recent months, he’s actually come to enjoy some of the conversations he’s had with his brothers. It’s akin to walking a minefield; because Jason’s too pleased with the way their relationship has turned to say anything to jeopardize it. But they’re good people, and they understand him. And Jason could always use more of those in his life.

Grayson doesn’t say anything. He just sits on the ledge next to Jason. He moves like he’s got the weight of every tragedy in the world shackled to his wrists and ankles.

A sigh, defeated and weary, escapes Grayson’s lips.

Jason looks up, glad for the first time that he’s not wearing his helmet. Through the rain belting his eyes and the hair falling over them, he can see that Grayson’s suit is cut up in places. He’s staring out at Gotham, thinking a thousand secret sorrows, and even though Jason knows that Richard feels these things, has felt them before, there’s something different about tonight. 

He looks overcome, as if he’s one more gunshot away from giving up.

Something about that stirs new gears in Jason, something separate from the ones that pulverize his thoughts on a daily basis. It’s the same thing that he felt that night when he woke up in Wayne Manor, when he finally rebuilt that bridge between himself and Bruce.

Richard can’t give up on anything because he’s good. Good has to keep trying no matter what.

Jason’s halfway to standing, his epiphany nearly twisted into something crass and cutting, when he stops.

No.

Not fair. Not fair to Grayson, who, as much as Jason hates to admit it, has been carrying this weight far longer than Jason has.

And, after all, what did the mantle of having to do good ever get him but bloody, broken, and dead?

He stands next to the man whom he once hated. The man who he now feels could be something like a brother, even though Jason hasn’t the slightest idea what being a brother or having a brother would feel like.

And he feels…

Understanding? 

Sympathy?

Something more: a sudden, rash need to spirit Richard away from whatever thoughts are clouding his mind. To stop him from becoming like Jason, much in the same way that Bruce has always wanted to stop any of his Robin’s—his sons—from becoming like him.

He needs to touch, needs to feel. To reach out.

His hand touches Grayson’s shoulder, feeling the broadness of it, the strength in it. How could it not be strong, with the world resting on it?

Beneath the torrential rain, the sleepless traffic of the city below and the beating of his own heart, Jason’s voice is almost lost.

“Grays—Dick.” He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, only that he wants to say something, wants to not lose this feeling he’s unearthed—this human understanding that made the bricks and strings that control his heart turn to flesh and muscle.

Jason finds himself wanting to see behind Dick’s bird-like domino mask to his actual eyes, to know what Dick is thinking and feeling beyond a shadow of a doubt at that moment. And maybe it’s tied to the fact that Jason’s helmet has been resting by his feet for the entirety of his vigil on top of the cathedral. Maybe it’s because he wants to be on equal footing with Dick.

Only, and to Jason’s quiet surprise, that’s not it all.

He has to know that Grayson isn’t quitting, isn’t giving in.

Jason isn’t aware that he’s still got a hand on Dick’s shoulder until he feels the other man’s cover his. He blinks, staring into the obscured eyes of Dick’s mask.

There’s an alien current, electric but also warm, that’s passing between them. Jason, hand bare on the rubber suit of Dick’s Nightwing costume, Dick covering the skin with a heavy rubber glove.

Alarms ring in Jason’s brain, but for the first time in his entire life, he completely ignores them. This isn’t about thinking. Hell, this isn’t even about doing. It’s about something that he’s done his utmost to isolate himself from ever since he called the streets home.

Feeling.

And what he feels, even if it is strange and unusual, also makes him feel…good. Safe. Trusted. Dick isn’t turning away, isn’t trying to talk this through. And Jason isn’t freaking out or trying to insult the feeling to the dirt. They’re letting it—whatever it is—be, and strangely, that’s enough.

Dick hefts another great sigh. Then his shoulder starts to shake. He lowers his head; his mask slips off, landing with a silent clamor at his boots. Dark hair falls over his eyes.

He’s crying. Actually crying as the rain continues to cascade down over the unforgiving streets of Gotham.

And Jason, not really knowing why, hugs him.

A therapist—albeit one with a penchant for dressing up like a clown and pining after a homicidal psychopath—once said that people who didn’t get enough hugs in childhood often ended up being inured to the needs of their fellow man.

Jason was never hugged. Not even when Bruce took him in. Bruce, blinded by his thirst for justice, had never given him the nurturing home he’d wanted—never given him the trust or the devotion that Jason had secretly been screaming for.

So he’s not quite sure why his first reaction to Dick Grayson, the once and former Robin, breaking down, is to pull him in for a hug. But Jason’s so sick and tired of questioning his thoughts and actions.

This is what he feels to do. This is what he feels is right. Just letting Dick cry it out as the city continues to breathe itself into Hell around them. As the rain continues to flood the filthy, grimy streets—as the orange, artificial light from the streetlamps creeps along the cracked stones of their cathedral—Jason clutches Dick Grayson to him like an anchor.

Because as much as he’s helping Dick through whatever it is that’s chosen to feast on his resolve this night, Dick’s also helping Jason. Helping him see that he’s not evil, that he’s not as broken as he thought. Broken people don’t feel; broken people don’t console or care.

Or love.

Dick finally looks up. Rain falls like tears onto his face, mixing with Dick’s own sorrow, making it nearly impossible to determine if the man is still crying. But Jason could well believe it. Eyes shot red stare into Jason’s—those eyes are blue, like his, but so unlike his in that they’re still alive inside, kind as the surface of a summer stream.

Dick tilts his head to the side, the faintest frown gracing his lips, like he’s seen something change—like Jason’s different to him now.

Jason wonders what Dick sees in his eyes—if, like Jason, he’s seeing them as more grey than blue, as less alive and more clawing onto life with tooth and nail.

Jason’s arms are still at Dick’s sides, keeping him close—so close that the only thing that seems to be able to pass between the two of them is the weight of wonderfully intangible understanding.

A shiver runs through Jason when Dick ghosts his fingers up his shoulder, to the side of his face and, finally, to the back of his head. Again, Jason wishes that the gloves were off in both a literal and physical way. He finds himself wanting to feel skin, wanting to feel warmth and contact.

There’s no room for the ceaseless tumult of his thoughts. He’s surrendered to this, to whatever it could be. Dick could throw him over the side, leave him broken and bleeding with his brains out on the stones of the rain-soaked courtyard below them, and still it would be okay.

Because it’s Dick. Because Dick is the one doing it. Dick is the one understanding and allowing and not stopping.

“Jason…” Dick whispers his name like a carnal confession—like a prayer meant to absolve.

And Jason, not knowing what it will mean, just nods. His forehead presses against Dick’s; ebony locks meet, connecting them by the threads of their hair, as if they’re one entity grown from the same thought and memory. 

Dick takes Jason’s silent acquiescence. Their lips meet, and it’s silken warmth so rare that Jason could almost cry from it. All he’s ever known—all he and Dick have ever known—is unmerciful adversity. In this, they can find reprieve, can find each other.

Jason groans and Dick sighs. They’ve found the same thing in this rapacious brush of lips. Jason steals Dick’s breath; and Dick finds it and takes it right back. Only it’s not his, because it’s also Jason’s. It’s _theirs_ , something they’ve made in this moment.

Jason needs more. He’s been starving for this without knowing it. His teeth nip Dick’s bottom lip, not hard. Not to draw blood or cause pain. Just to mark, to take more of the beautiful man into him in this time out of time.

Dick gasps into Jason’s mouth, and Jason stills, terrified that his carnal bite will drive Dick away. That he’ll mistake it for violence.

Only he doesn’t. Dick’s fingers, frustratingly gloved as they are, fist Jason’s hair. His free hand finds its way to Jason’s head. Jason’s own grip tightens, digging into the sides of Dick’s costume, needing him to remain, to be there with him in the dark and the rain.

Dick’s tongue snakes its way into Jason’s mouth, and now its Jason’s turn to gasp, to shiver. It’s so base, this kind of kiss, especially compared to the brief savagery of the bite that Jason gave Dick’s lip. But it stirs Jason’s body; ignites something in his being that makes his veins turn to liquid fire.

Dick is bigger, stronger and more experienced, and Jason doesn’t care that he’s admitting it to himself. The other man pushes Jason against the wall of the cathedral behind them, pressing his body closer. And all Jason wants is more: more breath, more spit, more of the man who’s going to devour him.

Bodies press together, hard and unyielding. Jason’s never known anything like this, not even with a woman before. He shudders, grasping at every inch of Dick’s costume, losing himself to the frenzied heat of their joint lips and tongues. Dick is half-growling, yearning for something that Jason will gladly surrender, if only Dick will say the words, will voice what could be unspeakable.

Dick’s knee works it’s way between Jason’s legs, parting his thigh with an assertive dominance that would have infuriated Jason mere hours before.

Now, all Jason can think of is how steely hard Dick is; of how much he wants to be taken, to be used, and then loved when morning light casts its rays on what could be a big mistake.

It’s a testament of how simpatico their minds are that Grayson ruts against Jason, grinding his pelvis as he steals kiss after scorching kiss. He wants this too, and it could be for entirely different reasons, but Jason is beyond caring. His hands glide from Dick’s ribs down, following the hard contours of his body to his back. There’s a path lower, more carnal, and Jason could take it, would take it.

But he doesn’t just want the physicality of whatever could happen.

He wants the strength, the security that Dick is practically feeding to him. He wants someone to tell him that he’s going to be okay, that everything is going to be okay. That he still has the chance to be fixed. And Dick’s back is so strong, so broad; it’s meant to carry weight and it could carry Jason’s, and Jason can take all the other weights away.

Lips chafed pink, they finally break apart. Both are in the shadows of a nook of the cathedral wall, out of the light. The rain pours along the dormers and sloping roofs, spewing from the gaping mouths of the gargoyles around them. They’re separate from it, from Gotham and all their responsibilities.

Ocean blue eyes meet eyes blue as the hottest part of flame. Jason sees bald doubt flicker across Dick’s handsome face for a briefest moment. He pulls the other close, hands still trying to tear through the back of his costume.

“Don’t.” Jason’s voice is low, rough. “Don’t run.”

Dick smiles, that beatific smile that puts Jason in mind of a pink sunrise over a winter’s morning.

“You sure?”

Typical Boy Scout. If the roles were reversed, Jason’s sure he would have taken Dick back to the squalor of his apartment in the Projects and done something to him. But Dick’s good, and that’s what Jason realizes he likes about him. He’s still a continuous ray of light in the murky darkness of the world at large. He’s giving Jason the option.

And Jason will be goddamned if he refuses. Throat tight from lust and apprehension that he’ll never admit, Jason nods. “Take me home,” he whispers.

The thumb of Dick’s glove brushes Jason’s sore lip. “Where’s home, Jaybird?”

“With you.” It’s all too true. It’s not just the manor, or wherever Dick lives now. Honestly, Dick could take him right here up against the walls of this house of the Lord and he’d feel like he’d found that piece of sanctuary he’d always sought.

Dick nods, that alluring smile still on the lips that Jason was consuming only moments before. He takes Jason by the wrist—it’s not a demanding grip, just inviting.

They leave the seclusion of the wall, collecting the guises they wear against the cruel world.

Dick casts Jason one final look as they stand on the edge of the cathedral, overlooking the slick street below. Dick’s checking for any last minute hesitation, but Jason’s too caught up in this, too driven by the feeling of feeling to back out. He wants to be taken by Richard Grayson, and he’s going to get that.

Gloved fingers twine through Jason’s. “Ready to fly with me?”

Jason nods. “Always.”

And together they leap from the ledge, into the rainy night and the magnificent unknown.

* * *

Even though this hasn’t been his longest hiatus from being at Wayne Manor, Jason still feels like he’s intruding on a place he shouldn’t be. He told Dick he wanted to go home, but Jason’s starting to understand that home isn’t so much a place as it is one of those feelings like the one he’s had with Dick all night.

And Wayne Manor beats the hell out of the shoebox apartment that Jason’s been living in for the last several months.

They sneak into the cave, like two teenagers high on the adrenaline of breaking curfew.

The ride on the back of Dick’s motorbike from the cathedral would have been enough for Jason, arms wrapped around the other man from behind as they sped through the streets and tunnels of Gotham City. The closeness—the security, really—was a piece of the sanctuary that Jason had been seeking when they’d attacked each other with lips and tongues.

But he wants more, and judging from the look in Dick’s eyes the second he drops his mask on the cave, Dick wants more too.

It feels liberating to be led by the wrist through the cavern without stopping to look at all that his family had. There’s no time for Jason to feel sorry for himself that he’d had it all taken away; no time to stare at the vehicles and computer screens and costumes with forlorn hunger.

This isn’t about his broken past; it’s about him fixing something, finding something with the man who has him by the wrist.

Dick doesn’t even bother stripping out of his Nightwing costume as they take the elevator up from the cave. Once the doors close in the cramped quarters, Jason feels that mutual heat between them rise like it had been a detonated bomb. His helmet falls to the floor; he lets Dick push him up against the wall, lets him capture his lips again. He lets Dick take charge, savoring the feeling of the other man’s steely body pushing against his, hips grinding into the hardness in the front of Jason’s pants.

Jason grasps at every bit of Dick’s body that he can, growling in his throat at the restrictiveness of Dick’s costume.

Panting, they break apart as the doors slide open. A lingering moment of blue staring into blue, and then Dick has Jason’s wrist again, taking him through the dark, familiar study and into the hallways.

Jason expects something to stop them. He expects Alfred to come around the corner doing some late night—or is it early morning?—chore. He expects the new one, the brat Robin, to make an appearance. He expects Bruce to be waiting for them, because that would be so typical of the master of the house—he’d be there to put a stop to what was making Jason feel good. That was just the way Bruce is, after all.

But nothing stirs in the dark corridors of the home Jason had once known as his own. Dick seems to be vibrating with anticipation as he and Jason alight the stairs. Once or twice, his eyes meet Jason’s and he grins like a little kid on Christmas morning.

Who between the two of them is more excited for this, Jason can’t tell. Sheer, puerile ego wants him to think that he is—because what could Dick Grayson know of wanting anything when he’s had it all handed to him? But fledgling understanding shoots that notion down the instant it takes flight. He remembers how the other had seemed to break in front of his eyes, how Dick had collapsed under some enormous pressure.

This is something they can share. It’s like the color of their eyes—similar in shade but different in depth. Jason wants this because he needs the affirmation. Dick wants it for his own reasons, and even if they aren’t the same reasons as Jason’s, they’re still valid.

It’s all been dream-like up to this point: the kiss, the ride through the rain, the silent traversal through the high-ceilinged hallways of Wayne Manor. Once they’re safely locked in Dick’s bedroom, the veil is pulled away from Jason’s eyes.

They’re going to do something now. What, he has no idea, but he’s pretty sure it involves the California king size bed in the middle of the room.

Jason watches, frozen, as Dick crosses the bedroom and flicks on the lamp beside his table. Soft light illuminates the dark bedroom, making shadows out of the rain that falls in ceaseless rivulets against the windows overlooking the grounds.

Jason doesn’t know what to do. And when Jason Todd is put into a situation where there doesn’t seem to be a method of escape or fight, his immediate instinct is to lash out.

But he can’t do that. Not here, not now. Not with the promise of what is going to happen; not with the scorching heat of Dick’s lips and the memory of the way he tasted on his mouth.

Dick stands at the end of the mattress, and cocks his head to the side, looking every bit like a confused little robin.

“Jason?”

Jason shakes his head, closes his eyes and forces himself to concentrate on breathing: _in and out, in and out. Focus on the breath and forget about everything but the present._

He hears Dick padding softly across the floor—feels the other man’s knuckles brushing the side of his face.

Bullet train thoughts shoot through Jason’s mind. He should forget about this, run away so that he didn’t risk changing things. But those are just thoughts, and Jason isn’t his thoughts.

All he wants is what Dick can give him.

“M’fine.” The sound of his own voice, raspy and needing, surprises him. He opens his eyes; Dick’s face, inches from his own, is like a heavenly mirror. Jason wonders if this was how Lucifer had seen Michael before being cast out: beautiful, remarkable, everything he couldn’t be.

But he doesn’t care that he isn’t Dick Grayson, that he didn’t have the same chances as the man in front of him.

Jason wraps his fingers around Dick’s wrist, preventing the gentle skim of his knuckles. “Take them off,” he says quietly, opening Dick’s fingers and rubbing the pad of his thumb over Dick’s palm. “Please. No costumes. I wanna feel you.”

“Of course.” Dick peels his gloves off, tossing them onto the floor. Jason reaches for his exposed hand, and brings it to his cheek. He savors the feeling, the warmth of Dick’s uncovered flesh. He’s human, real. Right there for Jason to surrender to.

To get lost in.

They stand there, Dick allowing Jason to stroke his hand over his face. It’s more than Jason had ever thought he would get, and satiates the part of him that has craved the skin-to-skin contact. 

But he still wants more.

He lets Dick’s hand fall. The other man smirks, sheer, Dick Grayson cockiness—no malice, just well-meaning mischief. He reaches a hand around his back; the sound of his costume’s zipper sliding down sends shockwaves to Jason’s groin. It’s a gunshot in the silence, and Jason’s exhales in a shuddering gasp.

Dick’s costume is his second skin in a way; it’s a different identity, a mask against the evil of the world and so many other things. The enormity of what he’s doing, of what he’s letting Jason see, isn’t lost on Jason. He’s letting him in, inviting him to see him doing something this intimate.

Black and blue slip from Dick’s shoulders. He’s peeling the layer off, showing his snowy skin. Jason’s eyes rove hungrily over Dick’s body, taking in the corded muscles of his chest, the wiry strength of his abs. There are wounds, some fresh, some healing—some of them delivered by Jason’s own hand. Guilt constricts Jason’s throat, but he makes himself gaze at every scar, every cut.

Every permanent tattoo of Dick Grayson’s bravery.

Jason’s eyes follow the trail of dusky hairs below the waist of Dick’s costume like a path to oblivion.

When the costume finally falls away, Dick’s left in nothing but a jockstrap. His skin is damp, the rain having seeped in through the cuts and gashes in his costume.

Jason feels a wave of light-headedness. Again, blue meets blue; Dick’s cheeks are dusky from mingled embarrassment and want. He looks as hesitant as Jason feels, and Jason can’t have that.

Because Dick is supposed to lead, supposed to be better.

On feet that feel like feathers, Jason closes the distance between them, his eyes flicking to Dick’s exposed body, back to his face, and then to the floor. He doesn’t need to remind himself that he wants this, because the second he caught the first glimpse of Dick’s skin as he stripped Nightwing away, Jason knew that nothing was going to stop him.

Not even Dick’s own momentary indecision.

He needs to say something, to do something. So he touches Dick’s skin, his fingers ghosting over ribcage and chest, lower to Dick’s slim hips. Dick shivers, and Jason is reminded again of the fact that Dick Grayson isn’t as infallible as Jason’s hatred had made him believe.

Dick’s vulnerable, exposed under Jason’s heated gaze and reverent touch. 

Jason’s tongue is tied, not knowing what to say. He doesn’t want to ruin this, and all Jason Todd is ever good at is ruining things. 

His thumb brushes against Dick’s nipple; Dick lets out a choked breath. Jason crooks a grin. He counts it as a win for him that so far Grayson’s the one next to naked; that Grayson’s the one to make such a wanton, desperate sound.

But again, this isn’t a fight. This isn’t a competition.

Jason settles for teasing the dark bud of Dick’s nipple with the thumb of one hand; the other snakes around the inside of his thigh. Jason’s touching in an almost curious way, wanting to thoroughly know what another man feels like; what _this_ man feels like. He’s never touched another person like this before, and it’s almost breathtaking to him to feel the sinewy hardness of Dick’s thigh; of his pecs and the nipple now hardening to a sensitive point. 

He needs to break the silence, because the sound of Dick’s rough breathing and his shuddering, small gasps are driving Jason out of his mind.

“You’re so…fuck, Dick…so different from anything.” And he is. He’s different from what Jason thought he would be; different from what Jason wanted him to be, even. It’s not just the heat of his skin. It’s everything about him. Without thinking, Jason’s hand glides from Dick’s thigh to the front of his jock strap.

Both men gasp; Dick from the feeling of being touched in such a way, and Jason from what it feels like _to_ _be_ touching Dick so intimately .

“Feeling…a little…lonely like this,” Dick says between breaths. He takes Jason’s wrists again; Jason wants to fight him off because he’s enjoying this too much, enjoying the weight of Dick’s erection against his fingers and the delicate hardness of his nipple.

Something of his momentary anger shows, because Dick takes Jason’s face in his hands and kisses him again, a soft, lingering kiss that abates the fire in Jason’s brain.

“Have to see you, too,” Dick says as their lips part. His hands find Jason’s own shoulders; he steers Jason towards the bed, towards the finality of what could happen, but Jason wants to have happen.

Jason twists around and lets Dick push him back onto the mattress. The second Jason’s aching body is enveloped by the plush, downy warmth, he groans, and closes his eyes.

Dick chuckles, crawling up the mattress, his weight settling next to Jason. “Been a while, huh?” 

“Feels so good,” Jason says. Calling the thing he sleeps on back in his sardine can a mattress is an insult to mattresses. “Could stay here all night.”

The words escape his lips before he knows he’s saying them. Dick stills for a moment. Then Jason feels fingers brushing against his face again, and he opens his eyes.

Propped up on one elbow, Dick’s staring down at Jason as if seeing him for the first time. It’s exposing, and it makes Jason shift uncomfortably. Not because he doesn’t like that look in the Bird’s eyes—but because he might like it a little too much.

Still, he feels the need to stick to his guns. “Don’t pity me,” he whispers.

“Or what? You’ll leave?”

Jason shakes his head. “No. I’ll stay.”

Dick snakes a hand inside Jason’s jacket, smoothing the front of his dark shirt. Jason suddenly feels too overdressed. Even though it pains him to break contact with Dick, he sits up and shrugs his leathers off, tossing them onto the floor with the discarded Nightwing costume. He peels his shirt off next, aware that Dick is still watching him, head supported by his propped up elbow. 

Jason wants to be on equal footing, wants to be alike to Dick only in this now. Not because he thinks it’ll make him better, or that he’ll get a taste of what it’s like to be the Golden Child; but because he finds himself _needing_ Dick to see him like this, so that they can both share in the openness, in the vulnerability.

Jason’s fingers tuck into the waistband of his pants, but Dick sits up, and once again takes Jason’s wrists. “Here,” he says, his gaze raking in the exposed skin of Jason’s chest. “Let me.” Jason wonders if Dick’s seeing the same thing in the scars that mark his body—the pain and the hardship—the responsibility for leaving some of those wounds.

Relaxing isn’t a part of Jason’s vocabulary, but it’s expected of him here. He needs to calm down, to surrender—to let Dick take the reins and do with him what he will.

He leans against the plushy cushions, staring at the ceiling and forcing himself to remember how to breathe. The click of his belt being unfastened almost breaks his concentration; the sound of his zipper being pulled down almost undoes him. He waits for Dick to pull his pants down, to free him.

But then again, Dick’s never been one for doing what’s expected when it comes to Jason. His big, warm hand snakes its way into Jason’s open fly. It’s Jason’s turn to let out a sound that he might regret having made—it’s desperate and shocked: a loud, grunting gasp.

Dick’s fingers torment him through the fabric of his underwear, groping at the outline of his hardening cock. Jason finally looks away from the ceiling, wanting to see this. Dick’s practically crouched next to him on the mattress, a smile on his face as he fondles and gropes.

Jason drinks it all in, the sheer lasciviousness of it all almost making him black out. His fingers skim the space separating Dick from him, once again dancing along the skin of Dick’s thigh, creeping to the front of his jockstrap.

He’s mimicking Dick, just like he’s done all his life. Only now he doesn’t care because he wants to bring this feeling to the other man. He wants to Dick to know what his fingers are doing to him.

Dick grunts. “Always gotta outdo me, huh?” His lips are parted; even as he continues to wreak havoc on Jason’s hardening length, Dick is still falling prey to Jason’s similar ministrations.

“You started it.” Jason smiles a little; it feels good to be doing this. Not only feeling the damp spot forming through the fabric of Dick’s jock; not just the feeling of having his own length toyed with from inside his pants, but the feeling of being right where he belongs. With someone who gets it, who understands.

“Have to see you,” Dick groans. “Have to touch you.” He withdraws his hand from Jason’s pants, and Jason wants to cry in frustration. Then Dick takes Jason’s pants by the waist, tucking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers at the same time and yanks them down.

Jason gasps. His aching length arched against his lower abdomen, all hard and glistening, the pink head poking out from its sheath.

Dick grins, his thumb brushing reverently over Jason’s foreskin. “Never knew you were uncut, Jaybird.”

Jason can barely formulate speech as Dick slowly, achingly slowly, peels his foreskin back over the pink head of his cock. “N-not like I…went around showing it off to you,” he says through gasping breaths. “ ‘Sides, it…kinda grew back after the Pit.”

Thinking about the Lazarus Pit only makes Jason think about the events leading up to his botched resurrection. He’s sick of the past, of ruminating on things that he can’t change. This is about him and Dick and that thing that Jason wants to find between them—that nameless thing that he feels like he could reach out and touch.

“Relax, Jay,” Dick says, his voice a placid whisper. His fingers scour the rigid flesh of Jason’s cock in slow, languorous ups and downs.

It’s torture and bliss unlike anything Jason as ever known. He lets himself go, lets himself get lost in this. His chest heaves; each successive stroke nearly has him reeling. He’s close to something, can feel it tightening in his belly.

Then Dick’s stopping, crawling up the bed behind Jason. It happens so fast, but in next to no time, Dick is sitting behind Jason, legs spread, knees on either side. And it’s only when Jason feels something warm and hard and slick pressing into the base of his spine that he realizes Dick has stripped off his jockstrap.

They’re both naked, both completely open. And when Dick takes Jason’s hard length and cups his heavy balls with his free hand, Jason lets his head fall against Dick’s chest, braced by the strength.

He can feel the other man’s breath against his neck; Dick’s peppering kisses and bites along his skin, whispering to him as he jacks him off and fondles his heavy nuts. “So good, Jay. So fucking good.” It’s praise, another thing that Jason isn’t used to. But he’s not doing anything but laying there and letting Dick do what he will; letting him touch him and tug at his balls and rut his own hard cock against Jason’s back.

It doesn’t have to be anything more than this. This is good enough for Jason, just being held like this, being in Dick’s capable hands. There’s safety in this—familiarity.

Jason lets himself babble, lets himself respond to all the filth streaming out of Dick’s mouth. He knows that the words “yes” and “more” and “please” are among the most common words that spill from his lips.

And Dick’s name, spoken with devoted reverence—like it’s the one thing that Jason can find salvation in.

Dick takes Jason by the hips, shifts him to the side and rolls him over. It’s better this way, because they’re even closer now. Dick’s arms are keeping Jason pressed close. He humps into him, bare cock grinding against Jason’s. Both groan and the feeling, and Jason digs his nails into Dick’s back.

His mouth finds Dick’s as Dick circles a big hand around both of their leaking cocks. The kiss is sloppy, wet and raw and rife with the heat of sex. Jason needs Dick to be kissing him, to be touching him and doing these things to him. To not push him away. To not make him feel like he really is the scum he fears he is.

And Dick wouldn’t be doing this if he thought that way of Jason. 

Jason almost cries as this thought eclipses his mind. His balls tighten and the molten heat in the pit of his belly gives way. Dick peels Jason’s foreskin back; his mouth captures Jason’s scream as Jason comes, his body shaking at the force of it.

Dick ruts against him, cock slipping under Jason’s balls, gliding along his perineum as Jason continues to shoot ropes of hot seed. One last rippling shockwave tears through Jason’s body as his orgasm subsides, and Dick is still gliding his cock along the underside of Jason’s nuts.

His tongue laying claim to Jason’s mouth, he grunts, and bucks, cock ghosting to the hilt along Jason’s taint. Dick comes, and Jason groans into his mouth and the warm, wet stickiness he feels splattering over his already sticky, wet stomach. 

They’re both spent. The air in Dick’s bedroom is redolent with the tang of semen. Jason lolls his head closer to Dick’s chest. Strong arms pull him close.

Jason can feel the gears starting to turn again. What happens now? Should he get up? Should he leave? Is Dick finally done with him? Maybe all he wanted was this body rush?

Jason shifts, not knowing what to do with himself. He makes to break away from Dick’s arms. Because of course he has to leave. That’s what’s expected of him.

Only Dick doesn’t let him go. He holds him tighter, presses his lips to the top of Jason’s hair and says one word that stills every dissonant thought in Jason’s mind.

“Stay.”

Jason stills. He looks into those eyes, those big blue eyes that have been healed of whatever pain it was that he felt on top of the cathedral.

Jason gets it then.

Dick didn’t do this to use him. Not entirely, at least. Dick Grayson could have had his choice of anyone in Gotham City, but he chose Jason, sought him out. Took him home and into his bed when he could have easily chickened out and sent him packing.

It isn’t just about being safe. It’s about being wanted. Being needed. And Dick needs Jason as much as Jason needs him.

The morning might bring everything crashing down. The light of the sun might expose shame or regret, but for now, Jason doesn’t care.

He settles back into Dick’s arms, and presses his face against Dick’s scarred chest.

Dick’s arms tighten just a little bit more; his body relaxes.

Whatever this is, it’s enough for now. Jason sleeps, and there’s no pain, no confusion.

There’s only them. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've ever written in the DCU. I confess, I haven't really kept up with the comics beyond Hush, so hopefully this doesn't seem too riddled with any glaring errors. It's meant to take place in the period after Jason wakes up in Bruce's care. You know...when that long, grossly overdue hug happened.


End file.
